Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 83814 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 279(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83814 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 279(@300wpm)
“It’s not that I don’t like your brother,” I say quietly, because it’s true. “I just don’t really know him, so it’s hard to get excited for the wedding.”
“I completely hear you.” She squeezes my arm. “Tell you what. How about you try on one more dress? If you like it as much as the others, that’s the one you’ll get. If you hate it, you’ll get this one. How’s that sound?”
I tilt my head and look at myself in the mirror. When I was little I pictured coming to a store like this surrounded by all my closest friends and having a good time. Instead, my closest friends are both ignoring me, and the only girl being kind right now is a total stranger.
“That works for me,” I say, lifting my chin.
Bianca gives me a sly smile and leans in closer. “Perfect, and once we’re done here, let’s ditch those two idiots and go for lunch. How’s that sound?”
“Sounds amazing.”
I head into the back, feeling only slightly better. But those good feelings quickly fade away as I strip down into my underwear and stare at the next outfit the attendant left out.
A sudden wave of nausea washes over me.
It comes out of nowhere. One second, I’m totally fine if emotionally vulnerable and mentally bruised, and the next I think I’m about to vomit. I shove myself into the dress, mostly because it’ll be faster to put that on than to wriggle into my clothes, and rush down the short hall to the bathroom. I slam the door behind me, lock it, and puke like I’ve been out drinking too long.
“What the hell?” I whisper as the nausea passes as quickly as it arrived. I flush and clean myself up before staring in the mirror. My skin’s pale and clammy, and there’s a sheen of sweat on my forehead.
I’m worried I’m getting sick—right up until I notice the stain on the white dress.
And I groan.
I try the rub it out, but that doesn’t help at all.
Shame washes over me as I step out of the bathroom, only to find the attendant already waiting. She gives me one look, glances at the stain, and her lips press together in a strained smile. “I suppose we’ll be taking this one,” she says primly. “Shall I take measurements and ensure it gets laundered?”
“Yes, please,” I say, feeling absolutely mortified.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Bianca asks as our driver drops me off out front of my father’s place.
“I’m totally fine. I just must’ve eaten something off, that’s all. Probably the shrimp at that dress shop.”
“Irina housed that stuff and she didn’t get sick.” Bianca frowns at me and looks like she wants to say something, but only gives me a tight hug instead. “You’re going to be okay. I’ll be at the wedding, right? We’ll get through it.”
“Thanks for being nice to me,” I blurt out as I fight tears.
She grins, hugs me one more time, and gets back in the car.
All things considered, that outing wasn’t such a disaster. At least I faced my fears, saw my old friends again, and got a dress. Even if it’s my least favorite and has a puke stain.
I lied to Bianca though. I didn’t eat any of that shrimp, or anything that might’ve made me sick. My head’s spinning as I try to come up with some rational explanation, and only one possibility keeps coming to mind.
But I refuse to take that option seriously. At least until that evening when the nausea hits me again and I find myself sitting on the floor of my bathroom with my back to the wall staring at the ceiling and trying to remember when my last period was.
Because I’m late.
And not just a little late: I’m three weeks late.
Ever since I went to Paris, my cycle’s been a little off. I think the travel time plus the emotional stress really messed with my body, and I’ve just been totally irregular ever since.
So when I flew back home and my emotions remained a total wreck, it didn’t really surprise me that my period was off too. I figured it’d show up sooner or later. It happens sometimes. It’s not good—but it happens.
For obvious reasons, I’ve had other things on my mind, which made it easier to accept all those really dumb rationalizations.
But now I feel like a moron for not taking this seriously sooner.
I go into full-on panic mode. I Google like an absolute maniac, which doesn’t help and makes me just think I have super pregnancy cancer or something, and I get desperate enough that I consider calling Maria or Irina for help.
Except the moment I call them is the moment the entire Bratva hears about my little predicament.
Lev can’t help—he’d kill me if he knew—and Bianca’s a total stranger and I’m marrying her brother in a few days, so that’s right out.